


You look like a playground to me, player

by gloss



Category: Star Wars RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Fingering, M/M, erotic and awkward is their forte, fuckbuddies to ???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23284408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: They've gotsomethinggoing. Neither is about to define it, of course.
Relationships: Domhnall Gleeson/Oscar Isaac
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26
Collections: All The Nice Things Flash Exchange 2020





	You look like a playground to me, player

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arbitrarily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitrarily/gifts).



> title from Of Montreal, ft. Solange, "[Sex Karma](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eq8zJ83j8Qs)"

>   
> **Joe.ie:** Domhnall Gleeson is one of our national treasures.  
>  **Oscar Isaac:** How could he not be?  
>  **Joe:** I know!  
>  **OI** : He's my personal national treasure.  
> — [20 December 2019](https://twitter.com/JOEdotie/status/1208114851559747585)

Halfway through the long-as-fuck flight, Domhnall shouted Oscar's name. Considering he was seated in the row just ahead of Oscar's, he didn't need to _shout_ at all. Oscar'd been feigning sleep for over an hour, so he'd have preferred no talking whatsoever, but that was, it seemed, pure pipe dream.

"Oscar! Oscar. _Oscar_."

Domhnall was hanging over the back of the plane seat, banging it with one hand and sweeping his phone back and forth of Oscar with the other. Oscar took his time opening his eyes all the way, then plucking one earbud after the other free; he yawned and stretched, fluffed up the back of his hair, and only then did he tilt his head inquisitively.

"Yeah?"

"What is this?"

Domhnall shook his phone again, far too fast for anything to be seen on the screen. 

"What's what?"

Domhnall thrust the phone about three inches from Oscar's eyes. He got a glimpse of a logo and blue banner before it was yanked back.

"I don't do Twitter, man," Oscar said, "how should I know?"

"You don't 'do' Twitter? What's that mean? Ah, yes, La Isaac —" He always said _Isaac_ like _Eye-sack_ , just faintly wrong enough that you couldn't call him on it. "— has not deigned to grace the Twittering plebes with his —"

Oscar scratched his jaw. "Don't do Twitter."

"You're here — on record! In video, not just audio — calling me a 'national treasure'."

"Uh-huh." He squinted, trying to recall. "That was a couple years ago, I think."

"National treasure?" Domhnall insisted and then waited, expectation vivid all over his face, so Oscar nodded. "You say something like that, all I think of is a bloody Nicolas Cage vehicle."

"Excellent, you cracked my code."

"What code? What are you on about?"

"We're going to steal the Blarney Stone." When Domhnall stared at him, open-mouthed and unblinking, Oscar gave him a conciliatory little smile. "What other national treasures do you have? We'll grab those on the way, whatever they are. Are there any?"

Domhnall sank down out of sight. When Oscar got curious enough, he rose in his seat and checked over the one in front of him. Domhnall lay askew over that seat and the next, lanky limbs at every angle, head buried in the upholstery. Every so often, he muttered something mournfully: _the Irish saved civilization, you scruffy-fucking **git**_.

"Give me that," Oscar said and lifted the phone from Domhnall's grasp.

Domhnall didn't notice it was gone until their flight was through customs and they waited, with some crew and a few other actors, for their rides. They were headed for a ten-day shoot in a provincial park, and getting housed in outbuildings on a former millionaire's estate retreat. 

"Here, chill." Oscar handed the phone back. "Boring shit on it anyway. Very disappointed in you."

"You _looked_?"

"Fingerprint access is bullshit, consider that a lesson learned. You're welcome."

"What were you looking for?" Domhnall shook his head so rapidly that his long hair made a coppery blur across his face. 

"Oh, you know." Oscar leaned forward to check the line of cabs. "This and that. Dick pics. The usual."

Domhnall spluttered when he got worked up. Spluttered, went patchy in the face, generally lost whatever cool he had managed to scrounge up here and there. It was so _easy_ to work him up.

Sometimes Oscar did it without quite meaning to.

What were you supposed to do with someone who insisted on coming off so earnest and gullible? It was like someone had set up the most tantalizing puzzle and accompanied it with a tall aluminum canister, frosted over with condensation and frothing with bourbon-vanilla milkshake.

Oscar was many things, but _human_ , in all the carnal and profane connotations of the term, was top of the list.

On the drive to estate, Domhnall explained at great, and highly unnecessary, length how he saved "images for private consumption" in a special compressed folder accessible only from the desktop in his childhood bedroom.

"Kinky," was all Oscar could say to that. That, and after several moments, when the implications struck him: "Private consumption, dude?"

Domhnall nodded, apparently relieved that Oscar understood this particular over-complicated neurosis. "Yes, of course. It's very special to me, you see, and I —"

He broke off when Oscar slipped his palm over Domhnall's skinny thigh to stroke the inner seam on his jeans.

"How special?" Oscar asked, all light and conversational.

"Well —" Domhnall made the word several melismatic syllables. His eyelashes brushed his cheeks, such that it looked as if they were bringing up the blush building there. "Quite. Quite special."

Oscar exhaled in a snort and looked out the window. The landscape passed in a mottled, half-fogged over ribbon of green against evergreen with a little more green.

He kept his hand where it was. Domhnall relaxed into the touch, eventually, spreading his legs a little and sighing. He was so tall that his knees drove into the back of the driver's seat; when he was chided for that, he spread them more widely, knocking the nearer one into Oscar's.

They got a good little rhythm going, Domhnall's dick swelling just out of reach, their knees nudging and swinging.

Once he got to his cabin, Oscar unpacked his guitar, checked his messages, and slept, since _someone_ had interrupted his plane nap.

He woke to a thunderstorm tossing the pine trees and sending rain down like bullets. It was excellent, full of cracking lightning and immediately-ensuing booms. The lake, just barely visible through a broad break in the trees, looked whipped-up and choppy, steel gray and inky.

Then the lights went out and he realized he'd neglected to charge his phone. He noodled on his guitar for about five minutes before restlessness got the better of him.

He headed to Domhnall's.

After banging on Domhnall's door, he ducked out of sight to moan Domhnall's name as eerily as he could. Nature cooperated, giving him a really great wallop of thunder just as he trailed off.

When it passed, he continued: "...know you're touching yourself, you bad boy..."

The screen door clanged in the wind. When the door itself flew open, and Domhnall stepped out onto the narrow porch, Oscar was set to tackle him.

But Domhnall managed to look imposing — angry, tousled, a feral skeleton set on ultimate vengeance. "What are you doing here?"

"Storm," Oscar said and pushed inside. "No lights. Lonely, a little scared. How're you?"

Domhnall just gaped at him.

"You look like a sexass Icabod Crane, you know that?"

Domhnall's eyes narrowed. Behind him, the rain drove down at a 45° angle and lightning flashed over the lake. It was entirely, perfectly Gothic and then Domhnall went and ruined it by saying, "What the fuck?"

Oscar stripped off his tee, soaked from the rain, and tossed it toward the kitchenette. "Close the door, you're letting...something in."

Domhnall hesitated, then complied.

"Okay, you make the fire and I'll..." Oscar glanced around. "I'll keep an eye out."

"For _what_?"

Oscar lifted a brow. "Danger. Ghosts, maybe moose."

"And why do I have to make the fire?"

"You did that bear-fuck film, right? Brutality of the frontier, wilderness bleeding into the human world yada yada."

"The Revenant?"

Oscar shrugged. "I assume building fires was one of those frontier skills. Am I wrong?"

"So you're a robotics genius and also a folk singer? How's that work? That doesn't work."

"I get by," Oscar replied. Domhnall started to argue but then apparently thought better of it and squatted before the fire place.

He directed Oscar to twist up sheets of newspaper for kindling and they worked in storm-tossed silence for a good bit. Oscar even offered his good Zippo so Domhnall could do the honors.

"You don't know shit about artificial intelligence," Domhnall said when the flames were starting to catch.

"Excuse me?" 

Domhnall pointed at him as if he'd just scored a point. "Said you were a robotics genius but —"

"Said I get by, actually." Oscar leaned back on the rug, rolling to his side. He curled his fingers around Domhnall's waistband and tugged. "Are you going to sit up there all night?"

Hair in his face as he twisted to look over, Domhnall asked, "Are you going to be here all night?"

Rain fell down the chimney and spit and sizzled against the fire. Oscar tugged again. 

From this angle, Domhnall's body was folded up like a Matisse cut-out, the angles overlapping, nearly radiant where they were traced by the firelight. His eyes were shadowed, the skin of his arms uncannily luminous.

With a sigh that sounded almost resigned — _thanks for the favor, dude, so big of you,_ Oscar planned to say later — Domhnall reclined on one elbow, then flung himself against Oscar. His kiss nibbled and sucked, nervous as a bird, before opening up and going every bit as warm and _deep_ as Oscar remembered. He got a hand in Domhnall's silky hair and moved his head around, tasted the fragile skin of his throat, sucked up a bruise to piss off Make-Up for a week.

Everything on this guy was sharp — kiss, elbow, teeth and chin — except for his voice, which thickened and warmed into soft, thick custard when they got their pants open and hands inside. " _Oscar_."

Oscar tried to push him onto his back, get on top, take them both in hand and set the pace, but Domhnall was fairly strong for a sentient stringbean. He held Oscar's shoulder down while drawing out the strokes on Oscar's dick long and too gentle, almost cruelly.

Domhnall's lips were swollen, his face and chest flushed fuchsia. "Tell me."

Oscar tested the hold, but something caught and gulped in his gut. His dick filled Domhnall's hand and those long fingers were twisting around it, doing something on each upstroke that filled the back of his skull with effervescing tingle.

"What?" he tried.

"Tell me," Domhnall said again, intently, the shadows and firelight hollowing his cheeks and hiding his eyes. "Don't be a jackass. Don't make a joke."

Oscar canted his hips and drew one leg up, knee bent, foot flat on the floor. Toes digging into carpet, truth be told. His skin flashed clammy, then unbearably overheated, and back again.

Domhnall loosened his grip, but sharpened his gaze.

"Fine," Oscar addressed the rustic ceiling. "Fuck me. I want you —"

Domhnall didn't let him finish. He flattened himself over Oscar, kissed him and reached past his balls, back and up to start teasing him open. Both feet on the rug now, Oscar lifted his ass, pushed against Domhnall's touch, muttered to him about supplies.

There were slicked fingers then, Domhnall still fucking his mouth with his own, tiny achingly slow loops around his hole. His breath broke with the thunder; the stretch and breach scraped up flames and lightning inside him. He rolled over onto his front, knees in the carpet, head on folded arms, ass up.

He knew what he must look like. He knew what he wanted. Domhnall knew, too, and he went faster, but never fast enough. Goosebumps sprouted and moved in murmurations down Oscar's bare back, across his belly, while the fire snapped and sputtered and the storm drove on. He tried to exhale, he really did, when Domhnall pushed in, but there was no air in the room, not that he could find, and whatever had been in his lungs pushed out every pore in advance of Domhnall's cock.

"Such a lover. Romantic, firelight and all," Domhnall was saying, rubbing Oscar's flexing shoulder blades as he fucked farther in, then drew a little ways back. "Sure know how to treat a gentleman, you know that —"

Oscar groaned and rolled his forehead against his folded arms. "Fuck you."

Domhnall didn't respond, but his pace quickened, went more ragged as he shoved in deeper, and that was _it_ , he found that spot that crossed Oscar's eyes and pulled sing-song moans from his chest and sent him shaking, near to begging. He was full beyond measure and each glancing brush against that spot made him need yet more. He'd ask for it if Domhnall kept this up, ask and promise and beg, and actually _mean it_. 

He bit his arm to stifle the groans. Domhnall yanked on his shoulder, grabbed his hip, and set to fucking fast and regular. Oscar pushed back, thought about trying to make it better before he realized this _was_ better, for both of them. His dick brushed the rug and that hurt in the right amount of bristling discomfort.

Domhnall might have said _feck!_ when he was about to come, but Oscar was fucking himself at this point, pushing back and dropping forward, drooling all over his arm and the rug, so he didn't know it was over until the pace slowed and Domhnall draped himself over his back. 

He reached down to finish himself off, but Domhnall caught his wrist and stopped him.

"What?" Oscar protested.

"You're not done."

"Not if you don't let me go, no!"

Domhnall pulled out, left an ache and throb where he'd been, and Oscar started to grunt and complain more, only to feel Domhnall's fingers push back in. The two of them curled on their sides; Domhnall pumped his fingers in and out, shallow but so fast that Oscar's dick went all the way hard again and he started to squirm for more. The ache was only half-addressed as marvelous, impossible needs cartwheeled through his mind — _use your whole hand, gimme it **all** , fuck me_; images of Domhnall's face in his crack; a dick up his ass and one down his throat and one in each hand and nothing would be enough, not with how much he needed to come —

Domhnall shoved his other hand into Oscar's mouth while twisting and spreading his fingers up inside his hole. If he looked down, Oscar had a bony arm emerging from him, but he couldn't look down, not with these fingers petting his tongue and cutting off most of his air.

He came, dick jerking on its own, torso jack-knifing, the pleasure bottoming out and dragging him down with it.

Afterward came quiet outside and within. Orgasm spasms slowed and so did his breathing; sweat cooled and stuck them together. Come became sticky. Domhnall eased both hands free and wrapped an arm back around Oscar's waist.

A loon bellowed at the retreating storm. Oscar appreciated the pathetic fallacy as he worked out the soreness in his jaw. His mouth was raw.

Maybe the loon was an objective correlative. He resolved to check on that.

They dozed off. The fire dimmed to shivers of motion within hoary wood.

Oscar stirred when he had to pee. He was far from meticulous, but the scratchy carpet and congealing fluids were a particularly gross combination. Domhnall was, however, splayed out like some kind of mutant starfish, all extra-long pale limbs. It was too much effort to get out from under that.

Oscar counted the freckles on Domhnall's forearm and puzzled out a silvery scar on the side of his wrist. Everything impinged on him, sharp and very close, inescapable.


End file.
